


Shell Game

by yarroway



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen, Series Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 10:17:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7528879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarroway/pseuds/yarroway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate reality fic in which the events of the finale go a little differently, because even doctors can turn their phones off sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shell Game

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: House, M.D. belongs to David Shore, Universal Television, Heel and Toe Productions, and a lot of other people who are not me. I'm not making any money from this.
> 
> Thanks: to srsly_yes for setting the Pizza aside to beta for me.

House waited outside the funeral home, disguised as an old woman. He watched all the mourners file somberly inside to lie about what a good guy he’d been.

He grinned at the thought of how surprised Wilson was going to be. Wilson would never be able to top this one. House waited, as patiently as he could, until 3pm when Wilson’s eulogy was scheduled to begin. Then he waited a few minutes more before he called Wilson’s cell phone.

Wilson didn’t answer. He must have turned his phone off for the service.

So much for House’s dramatic reveal. Still, the situation wasn’t that bad. He’d just head back to the loft and surprise Wilson when he came home.

House snuck in, still in his old lady outfit, and locked the door behind him. Then he raided the fridge, turned on the TV, and waited. An hour later he called Wilson again, but there was no answer. He texted and got no reply. His phone must still be turned off. House wondered if he were having sympathy sex with Cameron or Stacy.

***

The ringing of the landline woke House. He’d fallen asleep in front of the TV, waiting for Wilson to come home. It was three in the morning and Wilson still wasn’t back. House took some Vicodin and rubbed his leg as he waited for Wilson’s voicemail to pick up the call. After it did House dialed in and listened to the message. It was a robo call from Wilson’s credit card company asking him to call them about a possibly fraudulent charge to his card.

House wondered if Wilson had been stupid enough to leave his wallet out around the wrong people again, then dismissed the idea. Wilson had been ignorant once, but he wasn’t stupid. It was probably nothing though—a coincidence that someone had hacked Wilson’s card. Or maybe Wilson had decided to drown his sorrows in the Bahamas.

Either that, or Wilson was in trouble.

***

House went to the funeral home first, but Wilson’s car wasn’t there. Next, House checked the Marriott. Stacy and Cameron both had rooms there but Wilson’s Volvo wasn’t in the lot. Increasingly anxious, he checked the homes of all his former fellows, his old apartment, and PPTH.

The car wasn’t in any of those places either, and House was running out of ideas. He found himself circling Princeton randomly, going to all the spots he’d used to frequent; the diner that made the best Reubens in town, the mechanic who worked on his bike, the corner where he’d used to buy extra Vicodin. These places were meaningless to Wilson but they were staples of House’s former life, and he had nowhere else to go.

Finally he pulled up to the burned-out shell of the warehouse. A bunch of kids were ravaging a car someone had left parked nearby. They’d removed the license plate, tires, hubcaps and doors, and were destroying the hood. By dawn the car would be nothing but scrap metal. There was something familiar about it, though, and as soon as he had that thought House recognized the color and the silhouette.

House cursed. He hit the gas and drove through the gaping, empty doorway into the building where he’d died. He flung open the car door, stumbling over debris and hopping around holes in the floor as he yelled for Wilson.

He found Wilson lying very still, his suit jacket spread beneath him. An empty syringe and a burned spoon lay discarded beside him. The right sleeve of his shirt was still rolled up, and one tiny pinprick showed in the crook of his elbow. The sheer absurdity of this, of James Wilson in his good suit on the broken, filthy ground dead of a heroin overdose, was more than House could stand. Wilson was supposed to check out at home or in an upscale hotel with a fancy wool carpet, curtains fluttering on the windows, and House beside him. Not like this, not here, not this way.

House stood frozen in place. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. 

Not this way. Not _Wilson_.

Wilson’s eyelid twitched, and suddenly House could move again. He threw himself to the ground, welcoming the roar of pain from his leg, and checked Wilson’s vitals. His respiration was almost imperceptible but he was still breathing. His pulse was sluggish. He needed to get to an ER for a dose of an opiate antagonist, but House couldn’t carry him. Not even to the car. He’d have to call for an ambulance.

Wilson moaned. His eyes opened and tried to focus on House’s face, then slid closed again. If House called an ambulance the truth would get out. Wilson’s reputation would be ruined. That was the sort of thing that would bother him, especially if his family found out.

He remembered the way Wilson had clung to him and pleaded with him not to call an ambulance during the chemo. House had promised not to. He knew Wilson wouldn’t want him to now either.

The hell with it. House put the phone back in his pocket. He’d monitor Wilson’s breathing himself until the drug wore off, and if he had to breathe for him for a while, well, he could do that.

***

“Crap,” House swore, as Wilson’s breathing grew ever more shallow and his heart stuttered to a stop. He pounded Wilson’s chest and covered Wilson’s lips with his own.

***

Wilson was coming around, finally. House pried his eyes open to check his pupils. They were a normal size again. Wilson pulled away. Then he seemed to focus on House.

“If I’m dead, why do I feel so bad?”

“You aren’t dead.” At Wilson’s disbelieving expression, House added, “Neither am I. I faked it. Switched dental records with my patient.”

“No,” Wilson said. His voice cracked, and there were tears in his eyes. “I don’t want to have this dream again. I can’t do this anymore.” He took a ragged breath. “You’re gone. You left, and this is hell, isn’t it?”

“You mean because I’m here?”

“Yeah. I’ll wake up every day to the face of my best friend and remember how he loved drugs more than he—more than anything. I’ll remember how I failed him.”

“Maybe I’m a hallucination,” House offered.

Wilson shook his head. “You can’t be a hallucination. I shot enough of that stuff into my body to stop my breathing.”

“You did this deliberately?”

“Of course I did this deliberately. I’m dying. I’ll be in pain and alone for the last few, pathetic months of my life. This-“ Wilson waved his hand around the building, indicating not only the decrepit place but the drugs as well-“was a good enough way out for you. It’s good enough for me too.”

House didn’t know whether to yell or cry. Wilson had tried to kill himself. Wilson had nearly died thinking House had abandoned him. House had nearly had to spend the rest of his life alone.

“You idiot!” He grabbed Wilson’s hand and pressed it against the pulse in his throat. “I’m alive, and so are you. Don’t you ever-“ House blinked. His vision was blurring. “Don’t you ever dare check out on me.”

Wilson’s fingers were warm against his neck. His mouth was open and his eyes wide as he struggled for words. “This isn’t a dream. You’re alive. You’re alive! My God, everyone thinks you’re dead. We have to call your mother. Why did you let her believe…” he trailed off.

“I let them believe I was dead because to them I am. I saw an opportunity, and I took it. The police aren’t looking for me. No one is looking for me. How do you want to spend your last five months?”

Wilson's eyes lit up. “You...you did this for me? For us?”

House shrugged, embarrassed, and remembered something he’d said to Wilson many years ago, on the way to another funeral. “I love you too much to stay away.”

He helped Wilson to his feet and headed his car towards the loft. He’d tell Wilson all the details on the way. They had plans to make.

End.


End file.
